


These empty revels

by MaplePaizley



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: AU, But the elopement wouldn't have happened if they weren't into each other, But wheat they had was not sustainable, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Incl. Anatole, Many of the men in Natasha's life are trash, Should specify that this isn't a natasha/ anatole fic, So there is some romance/ adult stuff, Sonya is a v good friend, elopement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-23 00:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePaizley/pseuds/MaplePaizley
Summary: In which Sonya never finds the letter, and the abduction happens as planned.





	1. The abduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a longer multi-chapter work, and it seems like the right time with everything that's going on with Comet. Please let me know your thoughts and opinions, they honestly mean the world to me!

 

Natasha wrapped her arms around herself, tapping her foot to try to get some much-needed warmth. She had forgotten to take her overcoat with her, but she didn’t dare go back into the house to retrieve it. Marya and Sonya weren’t suspicious… _yet_. Natasha had told them that she needed to get some fresh air, and they had believed her, passively allowing her to walk through the door. For the last six months she had been prone to taking long, solitary walks, stealing away moments to find a place to watch the sky. It had been comforting to think that no matter where he was, Andrey was seeing the same stars as her, the same moon, dappled and gleaming, somehow made more lovely by its many imperfections. The moon seemed colder and more distant now somehow, but it was still constant, and that constancy gave Natasha some much-needed comfort. She was so frightened.

 

Thinking of Anatole helped to ease some of the nervous energy that was thrumming through her fingers and forcing her heart to beat twice as fast as normal. He was a person build out of _sensations,_ Natasha mused. With Andrey, she had always thought of his eyes, so pensive and guarded; of his brand of philosophy that was at once optimistic and utilitarian; and his smile, distant, and vaguely pained, even as it warmed her from head to toe. Andrey was complicated, full of an odd combination of pain and vibrant joy. He was an enigma that was constant in his unpredictability. Anatole could not have been more different. He was simple and direct in a way that Natasha couldn’t help but find intensely freeing. With Anatole, she never felt like she needed to think of anything but the feeling of his thick hair in her hands and the strength in his nimble fingers.

 

Where _was_ he? When she had last checked the clock before she left the house, it had been 9:50. She must have been outside for at least twenty minutes. Anatole wasn’t ridiculously late, but she couldn’t stay out too much longer or Sonya and Marya would come looking for her. She sighed, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of her nightgown. She hadn’t been thinking straight, she thought to herself irritably, but then again, had she been dressed in the middle of the night, it would have raised suspicions. She might have been able to get away with it if she had only had to fool Marya, who often went to bed having just taken off her jewelry, but Sonya was _scary_ perceptive, and had been on guard ever since the opera.

 

She picked at her nail beds, almost feeling the seconds tick by with her racing heart. If he didn’t appear in a few minutes, she ought to move further away from the house, where Marya and Sonya couldn’t see her if they came looking. But if she did that, Anatole might not be able to find her, and then all of this would be for nothing anyways. She was just considering wandering off the porch, closer to the gate when Anatole came scrambling up through the courtyard, eyes gleaming wildly, panting a little.

 

His face brightened when he saw her, and he pulled her into a breathless kiss, both of his arms immediately twining around her waist, pressing one hand against the back of her neck. Natasha responded in kind, twisting her hands into his blond hair. In the snow, in the moonlight, it gleamed, looking almost white. _So beautiful_.

 

She broke off their kiss to suck in some much-needed air and Anatole chuckled, leaning his head in to rest against her’s. “Natalie” he breathed. “How are you my darling? Are you ready to leave?”

 

Natasha nodded decisively. “Yes, Anatole, my Anatole.”

 

“Always yours”, he murmured. “You look so lovely in the snow. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone more intoxicating.”

 

Natasha shivered a little, in a way that was not entirely due to the cold, and Anatole gently ran his slim hands over her arms, warming her up. “You’re frozen, mon chére”, he said softly.

 

Natasha nodded miserably. “My coat is inside with my godmother and cousin.”

 

Anatole grinned lopsidedly, producing a slightly tattered fur cloak. “I thought that something might be forgotten in your rush”, he said gently. “If I may?”

 

Natasha smiled shyly. “Of course.” Anatole motioned with a finger that she should turn and she did, grateful that she had her back to him so he couldn’t see the vibrant blush that bloomed across her cheeks. He leaned in close to fasten it around her neck, so close that she could feel his warm breath caressing the shell of her ear. If he just tilted his head down a little, she mused dreamily, he could press a kiss to her throat. Anatole hummed in satisfaction in her ear as he finished securing the cloak, ghosting his hands down her shoulders and ribcage, finally resting them on her waist.

 

He spun her around rather suddenly and kissed her again, more passionately than before if anything. The way his teeth pressed against her lips and his arms crushed her into his chest were straddling the line between pleasure and pain, and Natasha let out the softest groan at being overwhelmed, drowning in the man she loved. Anatole broke off with a regretful sigh. “I could spend all night kissing you and it would not be enough”, he murmured.

 

“You always could”, Natasha wheedled hopefully.

 

Anatole chuckled. “You tempt me, Natalie, but we have appointments to keep.”   


Natasha sighed. “You’re right.”

 

Anatole smirked lazily at her, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “When we’re in Poland, mon chére, we never even have to leave our rooms if you don’t wish it.”

 

Natasha felt heat flood her cheeks; champagne-hazy memories from the ball of Anatole grasping her waist, reverently tugging her dress down, and dropping unhurried, bruising kisses to her shoulder blades suddenly all she could focus on. Anatole took advantage of her momentary distraction to reach under her and scoop her off her feet so quickly that she squealed, anxiously clapping a hand over her mouth. He laughed merrily and squeezed her tighter, shifting her so she could reach her arms around his neck.

 

Anatole looked furtively round the yard one last time, and strode through the courtyard quickly, only breaking pace once the troika was in plain sight, parked on the curb. He swung Natasha down, and took her arm, helping her scramble inside. She only had time to look back and catch one last glance of Marya’s imposing brown house, the square window where she knew Sonya would be sitting, before the troika rattled down the street, and disappeared.


	2. Preparations made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the support you've given this so far! Your comments and kudos honestly mean the world to me, and really make my day :) 
> 
> I would love to hear feedback on how you think I did with Natasha! I've written Hélène, Dolokhov, Anatole and Pierre before, but this is my first time tackling her, and I really want to make sure I do her justice! Thank you friends!

Natasha had expected it to be just her and Anatole in the troika, and she was surprised when she saw Fyodor Dolokhov sitting opposite her. She remembered seeing him at the opera and being vaguely scandalized by the way he conducted himself; arrogance seemed to seep out of his every pore, and he had been unashamedly draping himself over Hélène. He was not unattractive, she mused pensively, even if his clothes were a little threadbare, and the heavy makeup she could only assume he had gotten during the campaign in Persia was odd. With the shoots of grey that were creeping into his thick beard, he looked like he could be older than Anatole and Hélène, but his smooth tanned skin and alert grey eyes were youthful. So were the bands of muscles that rippled underneath his shirt when he crossed his arms. Up close, it was much easier to understand why he was called the assassin.

 

She smiled at him tentatively, but his face was impassive.

 

“Natalie, my love”, Anatole began breezily, “have you met my associate Fyodor Dolokhov?”

 

“’Associate’” Dolokhov snorted derisively.

 

Anatole smirked. “Problem, Dolokhov?”

 

“Would most of your _associates_ help you kidnap a girl?” he asked, leering at Natasha in a way that made her simultaneously want to look away in discomfort, and meet his eyes defiantly. She opted for the second, although as soon as she made eye contact with him, his face immediately shifted once more into stony blankness.

 

“ _Kidnap_ is such an unpleasant word”, Anatole complained. He shifted in his seat, drawing Natasha over his lap casually, ignoring her scandalized gasp. “We’re getting _married_  as soon as we get to Kamenka, Fedya, there’s a difference. Isn’t that right my love?”

 

Natasha, despite her discomfort, smiled beatifically back at him, shyly leaning her head against his shoulder. “So soon my darling. I can’t wait to be your wife.”

  
“Mine”, Anatole said smoothly, “as I am always yours.”

 

Dolokhov seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but bit it back. “It’s been too long since there was a Princess Kuragina”, he muttered blandly instead, turning to glance outside.

 

 _Princess Kuragina_ , Natasha mused. After tonight, she wouldn’t be Countess Natalya Rostova anymore. She would be Princess Natalie Kuragina, a name that thrilled her with its lilting phrasing and oddly pleasing notes of cacophony. Her children would be Kuragins, an Anatolevna or Anatolevich chasing their given names. She sighed in easy contentment as she imagined their future together, one that would begin tonight. She was just picturing the combinations of their features- could their children be lucky enough to inherit their father’s blond hair _and_ piercing blue eyes- when the troika slowed down and came to a halt, far too early.

 

Natasha blinked confusedly as she realized that the troika had pulled up at the Bezukhov’s mansion; a tall imposing building made up of white stone and solid, straight lines. “Anatole, what are you _doing_?” Dolokhov hissed.

 

“She’s only wearing a nightgown, Fedya”, Anatole reminded him firmly.

 

“So?”

 

“She can’t go on only wearing that, she’ll freeze.”

 

“So”, Dolokhov repeated with a forced calm. “Why are we at your sister’s house?”

 

“Her and Hélène are close enough to the same size.”

 

“Meaning?” Dolokhov’s voice was quietly menacing.

 

“I’ll just run in and get some clothes from her.” Natasha felt her stomach drop through her stomach. _Pierre, this is Pierre’s house. He’ll know something’s wrong, he’ll stop me, he’ll tell Marya, he’ll tell Andrey, oh god…_

 

Dolokhov stared at Anatole, clearly thinking along the same lines as her. “This is beyond stupid, even for you.”

 

“It’s nothing”, Anatole scoffed.

 

“She has the fur cloak”, Dolokhov reminded him. “I’m sure she’ll be fine until you can sort this out in Poland. Won’t you?” he growled at Natasha, who nodded eagerly, desperate to leave.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous”, Anatole snapped. “It’s nothing.”

 

“No, Anatole, please”, Natasha protested. “Really it’s fine.”   


“I’m inclined to agree with the little Rostova”, Dolokhov snarled, ignoring the irritable glance Natasha shot at him. “It’s the _middle of the night_ , Anatole. “

 

“Your point?” Anatole asked irately.

 

“That you ought to use that pretty head of yours for once.” At Anatole’s blank expression, Dolokhov sighed exasperatedly. “What if someone sees you coming in? What will they think?”

 

“The serving girl knows to get Hélène if I appear.”

 

“And if Pierre sees you?”

 

“Pierre will be drunk in his study”, Anatole countered calmly. “Even _if_ Pierre sees me, there’s nothing odd about a brother coming to visit his sister.”

 

“At 11 at night?”

 

Anatole shrugged. “It’s Hélène.”

 

Dolokhov snorted. “You two do keep theatrical hours.”

 

“Only because keeping regular hours is frightfully dull”, Anatole said airily, running a hand through his hair.

 

Dolokhov chuckled, until he caught another glimpse of Natasha, and his face hardened. “What about the girl?”

 

“You two will stay here.” Anatole saw both of them about to protest and raised a hand to silence them. “Natalie, for obvious reasons. Fedya, you don’t want to see my sister right now.”   
  
“Why not?”   


“She’s still angry at you about the other night at the club”, Anatole said. At Dolokhov’s irritated expression, he laughed. “Trust me, old man, it’s for the better. She was so incensed, I thought she might skin you.”

 

Dolokhov rolled his eyes, ignoring Natasha’s questioning glance. “Pierre seems to have all of his skin intact.”

 

“Yes, well I don’t think Pierre could slip much lower in her estimation if he tried”, Anatole muttered. He noted Natasha’s confusion, and smiled at her, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Nothing you need to worry yourself about, mon chére.”

 

“Regardless”, Dolokhov drawled, “I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather see an angry Hélène than _babysit_ for you, Anatole.”

 

“There’s no need to be rude”, Natasha snapped. “You’d hardly be my first choice either.”

 

Dolokhov shot her a murderous glare, turning to Anatole who shrugged. “She has a point, Fedya.”

 

“Whatever”, Dolokhov snapped. “The entire mission is fruitless anyhow. Give Hélène my regards.”

 

Anatole gave him a mocking salute, turning to Natasha. “He’s really alright once you get to know him”, he whispered conspiratorially.

 

“Anatole”, Natasha murmured. “Please, let’s just go, I really am alright.”

 

He gave her a crooked smile, playfully kissing the tip of her nose. “Don’t worry so much, mon chére. I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

 

Natasha sighed, nodding resignedly. It was almost worth it for the blindingly bright smile Anatole gave her in return. He leaned down once more to press a quick, uncharacteristically chaste kiss against her lips before he gently pushed her off of his lap. She watched, heart in her throat as he clambered down from the troika and set off towards the house with his usual unhurried swagger.


	3. The House Bezukhov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kuragins change their plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your support so far! Knowing that people are reading this has honestly made a shitty last few days much better. I seriously appreciate it beyond words :) 
> 
> This is where Anatole starts being ~confirmed trash~

“Good evening Hélène”, Anatole said, striding into her rooms.

 

“It’s the middle of the night, Anatole” Hélène snapped. Anatole raised an eyebrow at her. Although she was only wearing her night clothes and a long green dressing gown, her hair was impeccable, and Anatole could vaguely detect a spot of rouge on her cheeks. He found it incredibly difficult to believe that she had rolled out of bed looking so immaculate.

 

“Never too late to see you.”

 

“Debatable”, she muttered, although he could see a smile blossoming in the corner of her mouth. “What do you want?”

 

“Natalie is only wearing a nightgown”, Anatole chuckled, shaking his head indulgently. “Care to donate any of your clothes to a good cause?”

 

“What do you mean? She isn’t still at Dmitriyevna’s?”

 

“I have her”, Anatole grinned, self-satisfied. “She’s in the troika with Fedya right now.”

 

Hélène raised her eyebrows, pressing her mouth into a thin line. She was a master of controlling her emotions, but Anatole knew her well enough to catch the genuine surprise written on her face. “You don’t say.”

 

“What?” He asked, mock hurt, “You doubted me?”

 

“Yes”, Hélène said bluntly.

 

“You wound me, sweet sister”, Anatole said melodramatically. He smirked, wrapping his arms around her waist. “When have I ever not lived up to expectations when a beautiful woman is involved?”

 

Hélène rolled her eyes playfully. “I’m sure more frequently than you would believe dear brother.”   


“You’re cold to me, sister.”

 

“Always”, Hélène grinned. “You said Natasha needs clothes?”

 

“Yes. How about that dress you wore to that reception for the Tsar? You looked stunning.” Anatole mused wistfully.

 

Hélène snickered. “If your sweetheart is only left with a nightdress and a ball gown, I don’t think you’ve much improved her wardrobe’s scope.”

 

Anatole smiled back at her. “Besides her unfortunate choice in apparel, everything went perfectly. I doubt the Rostovs even know she’s missing yet.”

 

Hélène sucked in a breath, nodding thoughtfully. “And what are you going to do next?”

 

“Take the troika to Kamenka. Dolokhov found a believable enough looking priest, she won’t know anything’s amiss.”

 

Hélène laughed gaily. “The things you do for love.”

 

“It _is_ love”, Anatole said petulantly. “I would marry her if I could.”

 

“I’m sure you would”, Hélène murmured blithely, running a comforting hand through Anatole’s hair. “But you can’t.”

 

“It’s not as if I _wanted_ to wed that little Polish peasant. The whole thing has been damnably inconvenient.”

 

“So why bother pretending marrying the Rostova girl at all?” Hélène asked pensively. “If it doesn’t mean anything, really.”

 

Anatole shrugged. “She seemed more likely to be… _receptive_ to my advances if I gave her what she wanted.”

 

“A husband? Because she’s still not getting you, no matter what she may think.”

 

“There’s no need to sound accusatory”, Anatole said defensively. “I’m really doing her a kindness.”

 

Amusement glimmered in Hélène’s eyes. “How have you worked that one out, dear brother?”  


Anatole pouted the same way he might have when they were children. The expression was so out of place on his adult face that Hélène let out a low chuckle before she could stop herself. “Not going to tell you if you’re set on being rude”, he said haughtily.

 

“Humor me” Hélène murmured, ensuring that her tone was neutral.   


“Can you imagine her wed to Andrey Bolkonsky?” Anatole snorted derisively. “She’d be bored to tears before the ceremony was over.”

 

“You make a compelling argument”, she said drily.

 

He gave her a lopsided smile. “We’ll be happy together, perhaps find a small house in Poland. There’s no reason for her to know that the marriage is invalid, no one abroad will know any better.”

 

Hélène sighed internally. Anatole’s complete lack of self-control could be endearing at times; he lived with a vivacity and ease that she was distantly, achingly jealous of. He had never been groomed for the passive-aggressive maneuvering that was critical to maintaining status in their world and had, as a result, simply decided that it was unnecessary for him. For the most part he was right. He was handsome and charming enough to pull off a sustained bachelorhood, and her advantageous marriage had distracted society from said bachelorhood. As long as he kept dodging engagements, he was fine. But her brother had an unendingly tiresome tendency to careen wildly into stupid decisions, following his whims rather than a shred of common sense. It was part of the reason she had allowed herself to ignore the risks that this ridiculous abduction entailed; it had seemed impossible that Anatole, with his penchant for rashness and overlooking small details, would be able to do it successfully. Now that he had, she thought irritably, she needed to readjust, prepare for when something new inevitably went awry.

 

More than anything, Anatole lacked the self-awareness necessary to be reflective. Natasha was really no different from Anatole’s wife in terms of his enamourment with her. She was a pretty girl that he wanted, and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t have her. Unlike the Polish girl however, Hélène absently fretted, Natasha came with an impoverished, but distinguished family name. Anatole could not hide her in the countryside when he grew tired of her. This needed to be handled with no small amount of delicacy.   


“And who are your witnesses?” Hélène asked silkily.

 

Anatole cocked his head indifferently. “Some men Fedya found at a bar. They’re his friends I believe. That’s better right? That way they won’t be traceable to me.”

 

Hélène closed her eyes exasperatedly, forcing herself to take in a long, calming breath. “Drunks have loose tongues, Tolya”, she reminded him coolly. “Especially if they don’t owe you anything.”

 

“Who cares?” Anatole snapped. “People will know that Natalie is missing eventually.”

 

“Yes”, Hélène replied calmly. “But do you really want Andrey Bolkonsky to know that you’re the one who kidnapped his fiancé?”   


“Didn’t kidnap her”, Anatole muttered rebelliously.

 

“Doesn’t matter”, Hélène reminded him. “Who do you think will come out looking worse for wear if this implodes- you or her?”

 

Anatole nodded resignedly, looking away. Hélène sighed. “What if I came along?”

 

Anatole’s head shot up. “Why?”

 

“Because you seem to need me _and_ Fedya to keep you from doing something stupid”, she grumbled. At Anatole’s scowl, she amended her tone. “The less people you don’t trust who are involved in this, the better. You only need two witnesses. Dolokhov and I will do it, and then we’ll leave you and Natalie in Poland.”  

 

“You aren’t still angry at him?”

 

“Dolokhov?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Hélène bit her lip. In truth, the night at the club had been memorably horrible. Dolokhov had almost cost her everything; the reputation she had fought tooth and nail for wouldn’t have been salvageable if her purported lover had slain her husband, even _if_ Pierre had been the one to initiate the duel. She relied on Dolokhov to have a modicum of common sense when she couldn’t be Anatole’s keeper, and the fact that he was willing to be so reckless with such little provocation deeply disturbed her. She would have to have a serious conversation with him about his choices later she noted, with no small amount of dread. For now, she was willing to let bygones be bygones, in the face of their mutual interest in making sure Anatole didn’t kill himself, if nothing else. “I’m not angry with him any more”, she said smoothly.

 

“And what will Pierre think?” Hélène almost snorted. Anatole was being unnaturally pensive tonight.

 

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll tell him that we have…a family emergency, or something of that kind. I’ll come back before you, he won’t have to know that we were together.”

 

Anatole grinned, throwing his arms around her. “Thank you Lena.”

 

She snorted, ruffling his hair. “You’re welcome. Do try to avoid making this a habit, though.”

 

“I won’t ever need anyone else”, Anatole said solemnly. “I promise.”

  
Hélène smiled at him tiredly. _If only I had your optimism about this, dear brother_.


	4. A Call to Pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marya and Sonya pay a visit to the Bezukhovs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Sorry for the slower update, I've been away for the past few days! Thank you again for all of the comments and kudos so far, they really make me happy beyond words. 
> 
> Break from the action in this chapter...the Kuragins/ Dolokhov/ Natasha have been gone for a few hours by now, and Marya notices that something is very wrong. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think if your enjoying it!

Pierre groaned groggily as his migraine worsened. His brain felt like it was swelling, rhythmically thumping against his skull. He pressed his hands to his forehead, hoping to ground the sensation and make it stop when he realized that the banging he felt wasn’t his hangover at all, but angry knocking. He growled under his breath, willing himself into silence in the hopes that whoever was at the door would take the hint and leave, but the knocking only became more persistent. Pierre stumbled to the door, only vaguely mollified to see Marya Dmitriyevna standing outside, a younger girl trailing nervously behind her.

 

“Marya”, he began drily. “How can I help you?”

 

“Pierre”, Marya greeted him tiredly. “Have you seen Natalya?”

 

Pierre blinked, confused. “Natasha? Not since she was twelve. Why?”

 

“She’s missing”, Marya said curtly. “And I can’t think of anyone else in Moscow she would want to see.”

 

Pierre sighed. “Perhaps if you tried the Bolkonskys…”

 

“No”, Marya snarled impatiently. “Do you know what they would think if she disappeared? That dreadful old man already dislikes her, we hardly need to make it worse.”

 

“If she’s _missing_ Marya-“

 

“She might not be missing _yet_ Pierre”, Marya growled. “Perhaps she’s still on her walk. Perhaps she decided to find a place to stare at the sky for God knows what reason. We are _not_ involving Andrey’s family.”

 

Pierre threw up his hands in surrender. “Princess Mary is a very sweet girl”, he said quietly. “If nothing else, she might be able to help-“

 

“She’s not at the Bolkonskys”, Marya said firmly. “What business could she possibly have there?”

 

Pierre nodded, conceding defeat. “I don’t know”, he murmured. “I wish I could help.”

 

“Very well then”, Marya said coolly. “My apologies for troubling you so late at night.”

Pierre turned to show them to the door when Anatole’s voice came into his head unbidden before he could stop it. _I’ve found a new pleasure and I’m taking her away_. Oh God…

 

“Marya”, he began apprehensively. “How well does Natasha know Anatole Kuragin?”

 

Marya’s head shot up. “Your brother in law? Not at all. They’ve met once, perhaps twice. Why?”

 

“Anatole left Moscow tonight with a girl. I don’t know who…”

 

He was surprised by Marya’s raucous laughter, so booming that it bounced off the walls. “I assure you, Pierre, that my Natalya would never denigrate herself to being carried off like some harlot.”

 

Pierre nodded, feeling slightly relieved until he noticed the younger girl behind Marya biting her lip apprehensively. “Are you quite alright, my dear?” He asked.

 

The girl nodded quickly, ducking her head as Marya shot her a dismissive look. “Sofia is just worried for her cousin, aren’t you?”

 

“Yes”, she replied quietly.

 

Pierre tilted his head, evaluating her. “Are you sure Sofia?” he asked gently.

 

“Sonya, please”, the girl murmured. She looked at Pierre levelly. Her demeanor was shy but he could detect strength in her brown eyes. “I don’t know how well Natasha knows Anatole Kuragin, but she’s been getting close with Countess Bezukhova.” _Your wife_ , he heard in the subtle stiffness in her tone. He grimaced to himself. If he was accountable for Hélène’s misdeeds by association, he knew a lot of people he would have to apologize to.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous”, Marya rolled her eyes. “They’ve only ever met at the opera.”

 

“No”, Sonya said with more surety in her voice, “the Countess came to the house while you were at the Bolkonskys.”

 

Marya turned to look at Pierre, raising an eyebrow accusatorily. She disliked Anatole and Dolokhov, he knew, but she had a special place in her heart reserved for hating Hélène. “Pierre, what purpose would your wife have in taking an interest in my goddaughter?” she asked icily.

 

Pierre bit his lip, unsure how to answer her. Hélène was unscrupulous about her intrigues, especially when Anatole was concerned. He sincerely doubted that Hélène would have many qualms about helping her brother seduce a young, naive girl like Natasha, even if she knew about Natasha’s engagement. Knowing his wife, Pierre thought grimly, the challenge might even bring a perverted kind of relish for her. He could tell from Marya’s face that she had come to the same conclusion, although she was clearly expecting him to explain how Hélène had managed to inflict so much damage without his knowledge. He shrugged lamely. “It’s impossible to say”, he muttered. “You would have to ask her directly.”

 

“Well then we must speak to her”, Marya said firmly. “Is the Countess home?”

 

Pierre felt his stomach drop, suddenly dizzyingly nauseous as he remembered why Hélène, ever the hostess, hadn’t intercepted their guests at the door. “No…” he whispered. “She left town tonight as well. She was concerned about a relative…”

 

Marya paled, clenching her shawl around her with white-knuckled, claw-like fingers. “Forgive me in saying that your wife and brother in laws’ absences do not seem entirely coincidental”, she snapped in disgust.

 

“Do you know where she was going?” Sonya asked anxiously. Pierre noticed that, like Marya, she was fiddling with her hands, seemingly instinctively, although she had reached for the locket around her neck, rather than her shawl.

 

“No”, Pierre said, abashed, staring at the floor. “Anatole mentioned Poland.”

 

“Where in Poland?” Marya demanded, glaring at Pierre.

 

“He…he didn’t say”, Pierre faltered.

 

Marya scoffed. “And you neglected to ask?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Marya shook her head disbelievingly before she raised her eyes to face him. If her eyes could spit fire, he mused bitterly, they would have. “Even in the unlikely event that your brother in law hasn’t kidnapped my goddaughter from my house”, she spat, “you _knew_ he was stealing away some young girl, probably ruining her life in the process. And you did _nothing_?”

 

“What was I to do?” Pierre protested. “Anatole is a grown man. I couldn’t tell him what to do even were I to try.”

 

“Pathetic”, Marya snapped. “And you!” She rounded on Sonya. “How could you think to keep secrets from me under my own roof? You had better hope Natalya isn’t lying dead somewhere, you ungrateful little thing.” With that, she turned on her heel, and made for the door, stomping aggressively through the house. Pierre could hear the distant thud of her boots as she strode down the stairs, and the muttered curses she exchanged with his butler.

 

Sonya stared after Marya, clearly debating whether or not she should follow. “She’s right”, she murmured quietly.

 

“About what?” Pierre muttered, dazed.

 

“This is all my fault” Sonya said wretchedly. “I could have done something, I should have told Marya about the Countess…”

 

“You couldn’t have known”, Pierre said comfortingly. At Sonya’s skeptical glance he clarified. “My wife can be…cruel, but she isn’t indiscriminately so. She can actually be quite charming when the mood takes her. She’s fooled many more people than just you and Natasha.” _Including me_ , he mused bitterly. He still remembered the slim, laughing girl who had gone ice-skating with him and kissed him chastely in the snow, a mischievous gleam in her eye as they evaded her chaperones. Knowing the warmth she was capable of made it simultaneously easier and harder to hate Hélène.

 

Sonya shook her head. “Natasha’s been so… _restless_ lately. Waiting for Andrey has been so difficult for her. I should have been watching her more closely before something like this had the chance happen.”

 

“So every wrong choice your cousin makes is your fault?” Pierre asked quietly.

 

“You don’t understand”, Sonya sighed. “I’m an orphan and the Rostovs took me in when I had no one. I’m meant to be Natasha’s friend and confidant, and yes, occasionally her head when she’s being foolish.”

 

“That sounds like too much of a burden to place on a young girl” Pierre argued.

 

“Well either way it doesn’t matter”, Sonya snapped. “I’ve failed them, and Natasha, and if something happens to her I’ll never forgive myself for it.”   


“You should learn to be kinder to yourself”, Pierre protested.

 

Sonya’s lips quirked in an ironic smile. “From what I’ve heard, I could say the same of you Peter Kirillovich”, she said quietly.

 

“ _Sofia Alexandrovna_ , come downstairs this instant, we must be off!” They heard Marya yell.

 

Pierre smiled at her apologetically. “She isn’t really angry at you”, he reassured her. “Tell her I’ll look for Hélène. She’s the best chance we have of finding Natasha.”

 

Sonya nodded. “Thank you”, she whispered.

 

“Don’t worry”, he said with more bravado than he really felt, “we’ll find her, I promise.”

 

But if Sonya’s parting glance was any indication, she knew just as well as he did how difficult finding one young girl in the whole of Russia and Poland would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Sonya with a bit of a martyr complex :) First time writing her and Marya, let me know if I did an okay job!


	5. My enchantress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The troika begins its flight to Kamenka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos! Comments are a huge encouragement for me to write, so if you enjoyed, please leave me one!
> 
> ~Natasha is the worst lightweight~

Natasha blinked numbly, trying to come to terms with where she was. She was wedged in between the Kuragins in the back of the carriage they had exchanged the troika for. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of Hélène has Countess Bezukhova, Pierre’s wife, when the resemblance between her and Anatole was so prominently displayed. The Kuragin siblings shared the same vaguely pointy features, with thin eyebrows, almond shaped eyes, slim turned-up noses, and sharp, high cheekbones. They also shared thick, black eyelashes, and the same slight smirk, although that might have been a shared personality trait more than a physical one. They had the same heart-shaped face, and full lips that were the slightest bit out of proportion with their narrow chins. Noticing the tiny flaw made Natasha feel infinitesimally better. Widely claimed to be the beauty in the family, she had never felt intimidated by another woman’s physical attributes, and she found it both an odd and unpleasant experience.

 

Hélène seemed to have gotten over whatever squabble she had had with Dolokhov, and was amiably chatting with him, although he still kept throwing Natasha vaguely distrustful glares. Anatole was leaning casually against the window, puffing a cigar, with one hand on Natasha’s knee, mindlessly tracing meaningless patterns that made her shiver.

 

She pulled the fur cloak tighter around her, taking comfort in the warmth and the familiarity of the musty smell, even if it wasn’t quite the same as her own.

 

Hélène noticed Natasha huddling into the fur and reached across her to swat Anatole. “Your bride is cold dear brother”, she said meaningfully.

 

“Are you?” Anatole asked her, concerned. Natasha nodded wordlessly. It was easier than the truth. Anatole pressed a sweet kiss to her temple, swinging an arm around her shoulders. “My poor darling. We’re almost there, mon chére, maybe ten miles more.”

 

“For the love of God, why fucking _Kamenka_ Anatole?” Dolokhov snapped irritably.

 

“Watch your language” Anatole challenged playfully. “There’s a lady present.”

 

Hélène snorted. “Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

 

“Describing you as a lady would be charitable, Hélène”, Dolokhov remarked drily.

 

Natasha expected Hélène to fly into a rage but the older woman just narrowed her eyes and leaned back in her seat. “You really ought to get your dog a collar, Anatole. I believe he’s gone rabid.”

 

Dolokhov scowled at her, but Anatole just laughed. “Let’s not frighten Natalie, eh?”

 

“Poor girl”, Hélène cooed sympathetically, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Natasha’s ear. “This must all be very overwhelming for you, mustn’t it?”

 

“Yes”, Natasha murmured demurely. The lead-up to the elopement had been incredibly exciting. Anatole’s letters, written in terribly romantic French, had promised adventure, the kind that she was dying for as she languished in Marya’s house waiting for Andrey. But even when she had agreed to the elopement, it hadn’t felt real at all. She couldn’t believe that she had gotten away with it; that Sonya or Marya or even the Bolkonskys hadn’t found out and stopped her. She didn’t regret where she was or her decision to blindly follow Anatole into their future. However there was an odd sense of discomfort that she hadn’t expected. The way the Kuragins and Dolokhov spoke to each other was noticeably strange, in a way that couldn’t be completely explained by their close relationships to each other. The meaningful grins and occasionally stilted conversations made Natasha feel like all three of them were sharing an elaborate inside joke, one that she couldn’t quite understand, and it was more than a little disconcerting.

 

Hélène gave her a knowing look and passed her a small flask. “Drink some of this, my dear.”

 

Marya’s voice came into her head, unbidden. _There’s a woman one should stay away from Natalya._ She stared at the flask suspiciously, and then forced herself to push her doubts away. Hélène had been nothing but kind to her, she had no reason to distrust her. Besides, Anatole wouldn’t let anything happen to her, so she had nothing to fear, really. “What is it?” she asked politely.

 

Hélène gave her a small, amused smile. “Don’t worry, it will make you feel better.”

 

Natasha took a deep swig and almost immediately spit the vodka out, feeling the alcohol burning her nose and throat. Dolokhov let out a hearty chuckle, and although he tried to hide it, Anatole was also snickering behind his hand. Natasha flushed a deep shade of red, horrified.

 

“Really”, Hélène glared at the two men. “As if you two are competent drunks.”

 

“I beg your pardon”, Anatole said haughtily. “I happen to be an exceptionally competent drunk.”

 

Dolokhov snorted. “Well-practiced doesn’t always translate to competence, Anatole.”

 

“You’re one to talk”, Anatole huffed. “I haven’t forgotten about that bear.”

  
“Of course you haven’t, you were there too”, Dolokhov reminded him archly.

 

“Papa was furious”, Anatole mused, smiling wistfully as if recalling a pleasant memory. “I haven’t seen his face turn such a vibrant shade of red since.”

 

Hélène chuckled despite herself. “You’re bizarre.”

 

Dolokhov smirked. “At least you know he comes by it honestly.”

 

“His propensity to act like a fool?”

 

“The alcoholism.”

 

Hélène heaved a long-suffering sigh, contemplating the flask pensively as she turned to Natasha and smiled sweetly at her. “I know it’s an uncomfortable sensation at first, but I promise that you’ll feel better if you drink more.” Natasha obligingly took a smaller sip, feeling the alcohol curl in her stomach in a way that was not entirely unpleasant, warmth shooting through her body. “Good girl”, Hélène murmured softly.

 

“I’ve rarely seen you act the mother hen, Hélène”, Anatole mused.

 

“Because she’s the sort that eats her young”, Dolokhov grinned, smirking at Natasha.

 

“Oh do shut up, both of you”, Hélène said crossly.

 

“Don’t be angry”, Anatole whined theatrically. “I couldn’t bear it if you were anything less than overjoyed on my wedding day, sweet sister.”

 

Hélène rolled her eyes, although there was a smile playing on her lips as she leaned in to Natasha conspiratorially. “You’ll learn very quickly that the two of them are helpless fools.”

 

Natasha returned her grin eagerly, already feeling far more relaxed. As much as she loved Sonya, she had always wanted a real sister. Mary Bolkonskaya had been nothing short of depressing: plain, mousy, and cold. Natasha could as easily imagine gossiping with her as she could volunteering to kiss Andrey’s horrible old father. Hélène was different though. She was young and fun and fashionable, the kind of big sister Natasha had always longed for.

 

“Why don’t you rest until Kamenka, darling?” Hélène breathed, running a hand up Natasha’s back. “You must be exhausted.”

 

Natasha nodded distantly. The alcohol, coupled with Hélène’s hypnotic voice, was making her eyelids feel ungainly and heavy. “Yes…” she began. “I think you’re right.”

 

Anatole smirked, pulling Natasha into his side. “She usually is”, he purred, shooting Hélène a slow smile over Natasha’s bent head.

 

“Just go to sleep my dear”, Hélène crooned. “And we’ll be away before you know it.”

 

Natasha hummed in acquiescence, burrowing her head into the crook of Anatole’s neck. With the low murmurs of her companions speaking, and the rhythmic, muffled pattern of the horses trotting, she was lost to the world within minutes.


	6. Dreadful, terrible it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov and Hélène share a moment alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm so sorry for the wait with updates! My computer crashed, most of my files were deleted, and unfortunately this was one of them :/ Because of this and school and whatnot, updates may be a little slower than they have been! 
> 
> I'm also looking for someone to beta this! If you're interested, or you just wanna scream about great comet w me, hit me up on my tumblr, @penguinobserver ! 
> 
> Thank you as always for your support! Comments and kudos mean so much to me, and I really appreciate everyone who's left me one :)

Anatole and Natasha were both dead asleep, pressed together, limbs chaotically entwined. Natasha’s head was still resting in the crook of Anatole’s neck, but as the carriage had rattled over potholes and bumps in the road, her posture had become far more slumped. Hélène had tucked the fur around her securely, but it was starting to droop over her shoulders, exposing her skinny arms. Anatole’s cheek was resting on the top of Natasha’s head in a position that made Dolokhov’s neck ache just looking at it, although it didn’t seem to be affecting Anatole’s sleep, if the short, snuffling snores he was making were any indication. They looked almost angelic lying there together, and Dolokhov was struck by an odd feeling of unease, as if he was an unwelcome voyeur to something deeply intimate. He shook his head impatiently, glancing away from them. He wanted nothing more than to abandon Anatole to his own devices and let him flounder in his idiotic plans. For now he would settle for an escape from this hellish carriage. How could Anatole be asleep? It was close to freezing inside, even with the expensive glass paneling on the windows, and the hard seats felt like ice. Even without the raucous bumps and Balaga’s muttered curses it was desperately uncomfortable. He narrowed his eyes suddenly as he remembered Hélène’s flask, which was sitting, forgotten, on the floor. It suddenly struck him as no coincidence that she had been strangely reluctant to share with him, or that she was the only other member of their intrepid party that was still conscious…

 

“What did you slip them?” Dolokhov demanded.

 

“It’s just vodka”, Hélène murmured, gently stroking Anatole’s hair.

 

Dolokhov gave her a long, appraising look. “Anatole’s a horrendous lightweight, I’ll agree, but two shots aren’t usually enough to put him in a coma.”

 

“It’s been a long night”, she said archly. “With a lot of excitement-“

 

“ _Hélène_.”

 

“I mixed in one of Pierre’s sleeping draughts”, she said evenly. “I only put in a few drops, they should wake by the time we get there.”

 

Dolokhov stared at her. “You _drugged_ your brother?”

 

Hélène shrugged. “You would have done the same had you thought of it.”

 

Dolokhov opened his mouth to argue, but closed it, thinking better of it. “A fair point”, he conceded.

 

Hélène smiled, brushing a strand of blond hair out of Anatole’s eyes. “He looks so young like this.”

 

“He always looks young”, Dolokhov muttered gruffly.

 

“And so innocent”, Hélène chuckled softly. “Mother could never believe all of the terrible things he would get up to when we were children. Papa used to say that Lucifer looked like an angel too.”

 

“This is a terrible thing he’s doing”, Dolokhov reminded her. “He’s going to ruin this girl’s life, and you know it.”

 

“Unlike you to have scruples, Fedya”, Hélène remarked conversationally. “What’s Natalie Rostova to you?”

 

“Less than nothing”, he replied. “But that doesn’t make this right.”

 

Hélène narrowed her eyes, evaluating him. “You know that this plan is a disaster”, she said calmly.

 

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Of course.”

 

“You should have stopped him.” Dolokhov didn’t miss the accusatory note that stole into her tone, and suspected that she hadn’t made any effort to hide it.

 

“I could say the same of you, Countess”, he said coolly.

 

“Don’t call me that”, Hélène snapped.

 

“My apologies”, Dolokhov said drily. “It’s difficult to forget that you’re married when I still have your husband’s bullet in my shoulder.”

 

“I will not pity you”, Hélène said icily. “That duel was an asinine idea.”

 

“Ah”, Dolokhov purred. “So Anatole was right. You _are_ still angry.”

 

“I’m choosing not to be angry with you”, Hélène replied haughtily. She glanced down at Anatole briefly. It was a tiny gesture, more a flick of her eyes than anything else, but Dolokhov caught it. Her face softened slightly at the sight of her sleeping brother into something young and vulnerable, which only helped Dolokhov remember why he still stuck around the Kuragins, despite how tiresome they could be. Hélène’s easy willingness to protect Anatole, fight his battles even, had always been one of her most redeeming features.

 

“I’m grateful, Hélène, truly”, he muttered sardonically. “May I ask why I’ve been granted a reprieve from your, from what I’ve been told was considerable, wrath?”

 

“There’s too much at stake for us to fight right now”, she said softly.

 

He crossed his arms. “Explain.”

 

She huffed an irritated breath. “You and I both have a vested interest in keeping Anatole safe, yes?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Don’t be coy, Fedya”, she said sharply. “It’s been an incredibly long night, and I’m in no mood to deal with anything except absolutes.”

 

“Fine”, he growled. “Yes, I care that the boy is safe.”

 

“Good”, Hélène murmured. “Until this point, we have not handled him as well as we should have, but that is irrelevant.”

 

“We shouldn’t have to handle him at all”, Dolokhov reminded her. “He’s a grown man.”

 

The corners of her lips quirked into a small smile. “If you truly believed that, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

 

Dolokhov bit his lip, fighting the urge to roll his eyes like a child. The Kuragins were perpetually convinced that everyone in their lives orbited around them like docile, complacent moons. The most irritating part about it was that they were often right. “Fine. Although if you had so many reservations about this, why did you give him the money?”

 

“Because I thought that you would show a _modicum_ of common sense and stop him before he got carried away”, Hélène snapped.

 

Dolokhov glared at her. This was Hélène at her most typical: positioning herself so that she wouldn’t upset Anatole, while absolving herself of any responsibility that came out of her desire to do so. “You know that once Anatole had his heart set on that girl, he wasn’t going to drop it”, he said coolly. “If you were attempting to criticize me for enabling this godforsaken elopement, I’d ask you to consider how much more of a disaster it would have been if he’d tried to do it alone.”

 

“Regardless”, Hélène continued bluntly, “you and I have helped kidnap an eighteen year old heiress from her guardian’s household. This is _serious_ , Fedya.”

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You want an exit strategy.”

 

“We’ll need one”, she said confidently. “I don’t care what he says, Anatole isn’t going to live out the rest of his days in Poland with the Rostov girl.”

 

“You’re not wrong”, Dolokhov allowed. “But what do you propose we do about it?”

 

Hélène sighed, raking her hands through her curls. “We have to bring the girl back somehow.”

 

Dolokhov gaped at her, temporarily shocked into silence. “You want to do _what_?”

 

“We have to”, Hélène said briskly. “Don’t you see…if we bring her back soon, we have deniability.”

 

“If she returns with Anatole?” Dolokhov snorted. “Unlikely. Pierre knows he left town with a girl.”

 

“Goddammit”, Hélène swore, glancing down at her brother’s sleeping form irritably. “Well, she can’t return with you either, so it will have to be me.” At Dolokhov’s skeptical glance she continued. “Yes…as far as anyone in town knows, I was visiting a sick relative in Petersburg. Natasha was seduced by a young soldier, and wanted to escape. I found her, but she was so confused and frightened that as soon as she saw me she thought of Anatole, who she has only ever met once at the opera.”

 

“That doesn’t save the poor girl’s reputation”, Dolokhov commented blankly.

 

“We’re past the point of that being our primary concern”, Hélène insisted.

 

“Your story needs some work.”

 

“Well what would you suggest?”

 

“Leave the girl.”

 

“Are you _mad_?” Hélène hissed, looking down at Natasha’s prone body.

 

Dolokhov shrugged. “It’s distasteful, I’m aware, but Anatole won’t be able to escape public notice if he _or_ you comes back with her. If you want to act like this never happened, the only solution is to leave her in Poland.”

 

Hélène bit her lip, considering. “I suppose you’re right”, she said finally.

 

Dolokhov raised his eyebrows. “You’re serious?”

 

“Unfortunately, yes”, Hélène sighed. “This situation isn’t salvageable anymore.”

 

“It never was”, Dolokhov reminded her.

 

“We’d have to be delicate about it”, Hélène said quietly. “Anatole will be upset.”

 

“He’ll get over it.”

 

Hélène turned her head away. “The world’s a cruel place for young women”, she murmured, an unreadable expression on her face.

 

“The world’s a cruel place for everyone”, Dolokhov said gruffly.

 

Hélène huffed a tired sigh. “We’ll table this for now. We have some time before Anatole comes to his senses, or we run out of funds. Maybe another solution will present itself by then.”

 

“Yes”, Dolokhov said blandly. “Perhaps it will.”

 

But as he looked down at Natasha and Anatole’s tranquil, sleeping faces, and the carriage rattled further and further down the path, he forced himself to be realistic. The likelihood of finding a solution where all of them came out in one piece seemed to be slowly dimming, like a sputtering candle left in the wind.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. The village of Kamenka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The troika reaches the village of Kamenka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Hélène is my happy place
> 
> Big thanks to @thewhiskerydragon who is a fab beta! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are wonderful and v appreciated!

Natasha woke up rather sore from the awkward position in which she had fallen asleep, but on high alert. At some point in the night, she must have shifted to take up more of the bench, because she and Anatole lay sprawled across each other. Hélène had moved to the other side of the carriage, where she was curled up against Dolokhov with her feet tucked up underneath her and her shawl spread out across their laps.

Natasha shivered in the cold of the carriage, tugging the fur cloak around her shoulders as tightly as she could, and snuggled back into Anatole’s warm chest. “Why did we stop?”

 

“We’re at Kamenka, love”, Anatole murmured, yawning.

 

“And only five hours later”, Dolokhov muttered.

 

“Don’t be that way, Fedya”, Anatole said. “We’re having a wedding, be _happy_.”

 

“Easy for you to say. You were asleep for most of it.”

 

“That’s hardly my fault”, Anatole protested. “What was so compelling that you felt the need to stay up half the night?”

 

Dolokhov shot a sidelong glance to Hélène who raised her eyebrows. “Your sister and I were having an interesting conversation.”

 

“What about?”

 

“Nothing of import”, Hélène said smoothly. “Are you still cold, darling?” she asked, as she turned to Natasha and reached for her hands. “You feel like ice.”

 

“Yes”, Natasha grumbled. “It’s freezing in here.”

 

Hélène chuckled indulgently. “Don’t worry, we’ll find an inn and get you something warmer to wear. I brought a change of clothes for you.”

 

\--

  
“Were you nervous before your wedding?” Natasha asked curiously. They had reached the inn, and Hélène had sequestered the two of them into a small room upstairs after shooing Anatole and Dolokhov away to go find the church.

 

The corners of Hélène’s lips quirked up in amusement. “Sit down here.” Natasha did as she was told, sliding on to the bed, smiling as Hélène got to work re-pinning her hair. “I wasn’t”, Hélène said, twisting sections of Natasha’s curls in long fingers. “But then again, I don’t think I cared as much for my husband as you do for my brother.”

 

“You don’t care for Pierre?”

 

“I suppose it’s…a different sort of caring”, Hélène said carefully. “When you’ve shared so much with someone, you can’t help but care about them.”

 

“But you don’t love him?”

 

Hélène laughed lightly, putting down her pins, and turning to the makeup she had brought. “You’re lucky in love, my dear. Not everyone is as fortunate as you and Anatole.”

 

“Why did you marry Pierre then?”

 

Hélène paused, considering how to best answer Natasha’s question diplomatically. She remembered that her oaf of a husband was close to Natasha’s family, and maligning him wouldn’t do her any good in winning Natasha’s trust. “It’s an advantageous marriage” she compromised. “He’s a better man than others that asked my father for my hand.” She had thought that at the beginning, Hélène mused absently. Pierre Bezukhov had seemed bookish and sweet, besotted with her to the point where she wasn’t sure if he’d even recognize her wrongdoings. Five years later, though, she found herself saddled with a depressive alcoholic who took no interest in helping her run their estate and raised his voice to her when he was drunk. Pierre was a weak man, Hélène thought bitterly, but weak men could be as cruel as strong ones.      

 

“But that’s terrible!” Natasha cried. “A marriage without love seems like a death sentence.”

 

“There are much worse things in life than a loveless marriage Natalie,” Hélène sighed. “I hope that you never encounter them, truly I do.”

 

Natasha fell silent for a moment as Hélène fussed around her, taking her face in hand and carefully applying kohl to her eyes. Hélène touched Natasha’s chin and gently tilted her head from side to side, evaluating her handiwork, eventually smiling and stepping to the side so Natasha could see her reflection. She gasped, turning her head so that she could see her face at every angle. Hélène had made her eyes look unfathomably dark and wide, her eyelashes thicker, her gaze piercing in a way that was alien but beautiful. She looked…like a woman, Natasha realized with an odd pang of fear.

 

Hélène grinned at her playfully. “Enjoying the view?”

 

“I’ve never worn makeup before,” Natasha confessed, smiling.

 

“Well it suits you,” Hélène said, giving Natasha a critical once-over. “You look charming.”

 

Natasha blushed prettily. “Thank you.”

 

“No need to thank me, my dear”, Hélène purred, digging around in her bag for lipstick. “After all, we’re to be family in a few hours.”

 

“I’m so excited”, Natasha beamed. “I always wanted an older sister.”

 

Hélène’s back was to Natasha, concealing the way her muscles tightened rigidly at that. She felt sorry for the girl as it was, and she didn’t need a pointed reminder of how fundamentally she was betraying her. “Your cousin is older, isn’t she?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice level.

 

Natasha frowned. “Sonya’s older but I can’t speak to her about things like this. She wouldn’t understand about Anatole.”

 

Hélène chuckled. “Anatole is difficult to understand at the best of times.” At Natasha’s confused glance she elaborated. “He’s like this with everything he does. Passionate. Impulsive. Some people won’t accept that.”

 

“Was he like that growing up?”

 

“Always. He’s the same person now as he was when he was eight.”

 

Natasha giggled, imagining a stubborn, endearing Anatole as a child. “He must have been a handful for your parents.”

 

Hélène didn’t respond, just giving her a tight smile instead, before digging deeper into her bag, hiding her face. She did not talk about her father if she could help it. She recognized too much of herself in him to say that she hated him outright, but thinking about him gave her a twinge of pain, almost as if she was poking at a wound that hadn’t yet healed, or nudging a broken tooth with her tongue. She may have been his favorite, a fact he had never bothered concealing from Anatole or Ippolit, but that had not stopped him from selling her to Pierre like a prized cow.

 

Luckily, Natasha was continuing to think out loud, seemingly having missed Hélène’s temporary slip in composure. “I think that’s what I love the most about him. His innocence and the joy he takes in everything he does.”

“Yes,” Hélène said, relieved at the change in the conversation. “I agree. It can be trying when you first know him though.”

 

Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “Sonya doesn’t trust him. Her and Marya wouldn’t have let me leave, but when we come back, they’ll understand.”

 

“Yes,” Hélène murmured distantly, “When you come back.” She turned around, smiling brightly as she held a dusky pink lipstick to Natasha’s cheek, evaluating how it would look with her complexion. “This will do beautifully,” she declared. “You’re going to be a lovely bride.”

 

\--

 

Her wedding was not how she had thought it would be, Natasha thought dimly. Her dress was not the white, exquisitely beaded gown with a train that she had dreamed of, but an old dress of Hélène’s. It gaped a little at her breasts, and was slightly too long on her, but it was still beautiful- a dark green velvet adorned with tiny obsidian beads. It clung a little more tightly to her figure than Natasha was used to, but Anatole’s appreciative glance when he had seen her made the initial discomfort worth it.

 

It was not the raucous party she had expected. She had always known that her relatives would have overflowed their half of the church enthusiastically cheering for her as Sonya stood by her side as her maid of honour, looking quietly embarrassed. Instead, the village church was almost silent and still, especially at this time of night. Hélène stood to Natasha’s side, while Dolokhov stood next to Anatole. Hélène couldn’t have been more than two feet away from her, but Natasha could barely see her. The only light in the church came from the candles standing at attention on the altar, the ones she and Anatole were holding, and the moonlight streaming in. It wasn’t anything like what she had imagined, but in an odd way, Natasha mused, it had its own strange brand of beauty. The ceremony seemed solemn, but holier somehow, as if the quiet darkness gave way to a deeper connection to some divine spirit.

 

The priest wheezed his way through a long ektina before nodding to Hélène and Dolokhov, who both stepped forwards, holding the crowns over her and Anatole’s heads. Natasha tried to keep her attention on the priest but flicked her eyes up briefly to Anatole’s crown. It was a tarnished, clearly well-loved thing that the entire village had likely used. It was a dirty dark gray instead of glimmering gold, without any inlaid stones like the crowns in use at her church, but it was encircled by a beautiful carving of a rose which hadn’t been completely ruined by the flaking rust that threatened to overtake it entirely.

 

She shivered as Anatole pressed his warm fingers to her’s, allowing the priest to wrap the stole around their joined hands. He gave her a small smile, squeezing her hand gently and she felt her fears dissipate. How could she feel anything but joy when in a few moments he would be _her’s_? She felt a vibrant, terrifying wave of gleeful energy tear through her, so powerful that she had to school her face into a serious expression, and stop her hands from trembling.

 

The priest led them in the procession, eventually coming to a stop in the middle of the church. Seemingly before she could blink, Natasha was a married woman. Anatole beamed at her beatifically before he all but shoved his candle at Dolokhov, wrapping Natasha up in his arms and dipping her in a dramatic kiss. Natasha barely registered Dolokhov’s groan and Hélène’s musical laughter as she quickly adjusted, wrapping her arms around her husband’s neck as if she had always been meant to be there. _Her husband_.

 

She broke away from him first, giggling, feeling almost lightheaded with love. Anatole gazed at her adoringly, playfully bumping her nose with his before he scooped her up, chuckling at her surprised squeal. He shifted her in his arms, pressing her a little tighter to his chest, before turning and striding towards the church doors.

 

“Already off to bed, dear brother?” Hélène called after them.

 

“If he hurries, he’ll have the whole of two hours before the sun rises,” Dolokhov said drily.

 

“No bother,” Anatole grinned, considering Natasha with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Sleeping is one of the least interesting things one can do in a bed, anyhow.”

 

“Don’t be indelicate,” Hélène scolded. “You’re making your bride blush.”

 

“ _Wife,_ ” Anatole corrected her archly, not breaking pace or looking back.

 

Natasha hummed happily in agreement as he carried her up the stairs and into the room, absently kicking the door closed. For the briefest second, as Anatole placed her gently on the bed and turned to unlace his boots, the magnitude of what they had done shocked her. There would never be another time in her life, she thought to herself, where this man, who only weeks ago had been a perfect stranger, wouldn’t be the most important person in her life. She knew him, of course she did, but she had so much to learn about his intricacies, his hopes and fears, what he looked like when he first woke up. She pushed those intrusive thoughts away quickly, and with little effort. The poets always said that the joy of love was in discovery, and in that way, she was already more in love with her husband than she could have hoped for with anyone else. She sighed, content, and as her husband crawled over her, and the rest of the early morning faded into a dreamy haze, the only thought she kept coming back to was how thoroughly she was now his.


End file.
